Alternate title: Why I'll never have 1 million Twitter followers.
I don't think I've had the ambition to do a Top 10 in a while, so amidst seemingly non-stop customized resume preparations, I thought I'd take some time out to procrastinate attempt to entertain you.
My follow and unfollow rates on Twitter are fairly consistent with each other; I've written before how it's all okay - to each their own and all that codswallop . . . but whenever I get a mass exodus in a single day (more than 20), I can never be sure exactly why, since my tweet content is more across the bloody map that Carmen Sandiego.
So, here are my thoughts on that phenomenon.
- 10 -
I rest my case.
And I don't really mind, but it's just a mildly interesting observation of what happens when one doesn't fit exactly into a specific genre, interest group or clique. Hey, kinda like when I was in high school. Ahem.
And on a completely unrelated note, I can't believe January is over, mostly because that means I've survived another 4 weeks being home full time with the boys.
First off, today is my 35th birthday. I'm not going to ask you all for naughty photos because then they wouldn't classify as being "unsolicited" and I couldn't claim ignorance . . . but ya know, you do what you gotta do . . . mmmk? Ahem. ------------------------------------------------------------
I haven't done a Writer's Workshop for a long time, and I don't even know if this overly qualifies, but I saw that one of the topics was: Something that made you laugh this week — and I couldn't pass up the chance to share this piece of journalistic brilliance with everyone.
I was in the waiting room at my doctor's appointment, minding my own business and reading one of the manky, out-dated women's magazines from the pile. I usually choose the one that has a famous woman on the cover that I detest the least, which isn't always easy. After flipping through page after page of advertisements for all the ways I can make myself a better woman, I found an article with a huge Frida Kahlo self portrait.
Ooohhh, art. I can read about that.
And then I read that the article was essentially about women with mustaches. Whatever. Fine. I've already invested my attention and I likely wouldn't find anything better, so I read further down the page and found this . . .
I had to take a double take and then I back tracked some reading and took a third take before I burst into laughter. I think I jump-started an elderly man's heart that was sitting across from me. You're welcome, sir, by the way. Mona Lisa, Mariah Carey, Tina Fey . . . and JUSTIN BIEBER.
That is hysterical as hell.
Bravo to Elle Magazine Canada and Joana Lourenço for that hilarious dig on the popstar. Loved it!
And since I have a plethora of useless art knowledge stored in my brain, I feel compelled to also share with everyone the amusing tidbit that Duchamp's L.H.O.O.Q. is actually a French pun that when said out loud, the sound of it translates in English to say, "She has a hot ass."
You go, Mustache'y Mona . . . and Lady Bieber!
Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! I'll be off stuffing my face with pizza and ice cream cake.
It had been a long day cooped up inside; at -14 degrees, it was too cold to play outside & the boys were driving us b-a-n-a-n-a-s. "Let's go ice skating for the very first time with the boys, ever" was my brilliant idea. I was thinking pssfftt, I got this shit covered. I was a hockey player. I have Bauer skates. I don't even need a jock strap! I'm a bad ass bitch on the ice, yo. I did, however, have to pick up new skates on the way to the rink, as it has been the better part of a decade since I've been on skates, and my old ones wouldn't fit me anymore -- of that, I was pretty sure.
Even at Canadian Tire, when I needed to ask the store kid for help (since I was in a hurry, not because I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. Ahem), I totally had my butch jock'star attitude on as I boasted, "I play hockey, so I don't weeeear figure skates. I need hockey skates." And inside, my ego was lookin' like this . . .
I mean, it would surely be like riding a bike, right? Who cares if it's been 8+ years since I've stepped a blade on the ice -- a brand new, freshly sharpened pair of blades that could cut a jugular with a mere accidental sneeze, to be more precise. Nevertheless, when we got to the arena and while I was lacing up, I still felt like I was going to rock this rodeo . . .
But then faster than you can say onamonapia, I stood up on my new skates and the searing pain went chi chi chi owwwwiee all the way up my spine and exploded from my neck with an additional aaahhhh guuuggghhh with every single click clop click clop of my skates as I approached the ice. The very instant I stepped onto the rink, I felt like this . . .
It took every burning muscle in my body to keep myself standing upright. And then as the boys entered the rink, I had to deal with this as well . . .
Sweet Jesus. I have never wanted to curse my husband's "weak ankles" more than at that moment. He got to watch from behind his shame the crash boards as I sucked up every last drop of adrenaline my body could possibly produce. Soon there was trouble on the front and when one goes down, he took us all with him like 3 bowling pins, and I felt like this . . .
But of course, we got up and shuffled onward and after about fifteen of the longest minutes of my life (and not yet even making it to the center line), I was ready to chalk it up to "a good first effort", but the boys actually WANTED to stay and were LOVING it . . . of fucking course they were! The ONE time I am actually hoping they hate an experience. Ugh. It was about at that very moment that I looked over at my husband kinda like this . . .
Thankfully, the Zamboni gods spared my life and it was time to get off the ice, regardless of the boys' plans to stay there for all eternity. There were tantrums and chaos but I didn't even care and barely noticed. I just wanted to stand on a non-frozen surface - that was the short term, number one goal of my life.
When I woke up this morning, it was a huge OMFG. I wanted more than anything to rock the Pierce Hawthorne look and just not give a shit until my body heals in a few days . . .
And as soon at it was a reasonably acceptable hour to use the phone this morning, I call my daddy . . .
. . . and told him he needs to come over and teach his grandsons to skate, because I ain't EVER fucking doing that again by myself!
And please take my advice: If you're out of shape, don't ever attempt to prove your body wrong. Denial can be lethal. Just avoid intensely strenuous activities all together, forever -- it's way easier and much less painful.
I'd like to take this moment to say, "Hey!"
To this fine young woman who beat out Tiny Fey.
It's not that I don't love her too, 'cos I do,
But it was quite the shit that went down yesterday.
It's like a little indie band beating out Geffen,
Or singing the alphabet backwards after 8 shots of gin.
It just didn't seem quite possible
To beat all odds and have Lena Dunham to win.
It's true that I wasn't worried about Zooey whatsherfuckingface.
If she won it would've been a serious disgrace,
But the others made for a tough and stellar line up!
And here's where I'd want to add a clever and hilarious rhyme about a poker face but Gaga went and fucked up that phrase for at least the next 2 generations, minimum. You and Drake should hang out and together should laugh about how you two have successfully contributed to ruining much of our vernacular.
Anyways, here's to you, Lena, for accomplishing so much.
I mean, it's not really about winning, but of whom you touch.
Your characters are real and quirky and complex.
And sex is perfectly addressed; you don't use it as a 'go to' crutch.
Your writing is tight but your girls aren't . . . overly.
I nearly wet myself when you wrote about HPV.
I wanna squeeze your sexy love handles with joy; is that okay?
I see much of myself in you, except of course that you're younger, smarter, funnier and let's not even try to compare motivation levels because while you are up there writing and producing and directing and winning and shit, I'm . . . well . . . right here, on the couch, eating Reese pieces and sipping on cold coffee I made 4 hours ago, thinking about all the screenplays and miniseries that are floating around in my head but will most likely never get put to paper.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is . . . CONGRATULATIONS.
You deserve it.
I'm sorry that you have such a sad and boring life that you feel the compulsion to entertain yourself by bullying an amazing woman like my mother. She is loved by everyone that knows her. She is honest, caring and thoughtful -- 3 qualities you completely lack.
I'm sorry that you thought you would feel better about yourself by making up inflammatory lies about my mother and spreading them like diarrhea from your over-inflated ass.
I'm sorry you thought you could get away with your infantile (that means young or immature) behavior without consequence. My mother might be able to rise above it, but I'm not nearly as nice or forgiving as she is.
I'm sorry that you never graduated high school and feel insecure that everyone around you is more educated than yourself. I tried really hard to keep my words to no more than three syllables each.
And finally, I'm sorry that I will likely never have the displeasure to see your smug face again. It would give me intense joy to return the favor and cause you even just one tenth (that's a fraction, by the way, or I could use 10% if that's easier for you to understand) the pain and stress that you have caused others.
The next time you're on you knees, it better not be for praying because that would make you the biggest (literally) fucking hypocrite north of the border. You'd be better off filling those loose lips of yours with something much less religious.
You are a putrid human being and quite frankly, a cunt.
I finally had my first orientation for the gastric by-pass procedure. It was just a general information session, held in a large lecture hall filled with fat people seats - wide and reinforced. Fuck, they're comfy . . . and absolutely fabulous for my self esteem. I'm not even being sarcastic -- I had a good 4 inches on either side that made me think that Burger King on the way home from this meeting would be totally harmless.
While we were waiting for the presentation to begin, there was a lot of silence and looking around. Basically, we were all sizing each other up, wondering how much weight each needed to loose. I know this because 90% of the candidates were women. Big women. And we were there for one reason and one reason only, so it's only natural, right?
And possibly because I'm a bitch.
I was frequently entertaining myself with fat jokes that swirled around in my head -- perhaps that's what was helping me get through. I mean, this surgery is a big fucking deal and it's a lot of life changing information to process. Inappropriate humor is how I cope.
Plus, isn't there some unwritten rule that you're allowed to mock a certain group of people as long as you're one of them?
But here's the thing: It WAS NOT an intimate support group setting. Spouses and other family members and friends were there as well. It was hosted by one militant nurse. She stood on a podium and sternly listed off facts and requirements to the entire group, which was no less than 50 people.
I remember from being back in University how there was always that ONE person that believed that lecture time was a one-on-one tutorial; this night was no exception. This also meant I didn't have to provide my own entertainment anymore -- it was suddenly being provided.
To set the scene, picture a version of Nanny McPhee (sans mole) that had just swallowed a manatee and possibly lived in a trailer park. Her husband sat beside her. He was 1/3 her size, both height and width, and likely suffering from blood loss as she never once let go of his hand with her giant woman grip.
Nurse: "You must drink 8 glasses of water a day, but in small sips. That's the tricky part."
Trailer Park McPhee's hand shoots up: "But what if you suffer from dry mouth? I have that and water doesn't work. Even sitting here right now, I'm dying of thirst."
I didn't need to know about your pasty mouth.
Minutes later, nurse: "If you're on anti-depressants, please do not suddenly go off them."
TPMP, blurting out with her hand in the air: "I'm on those. That's what causes my dry mouth!"
Congratulations on that over-share.
Then someone came in very late and there was no way the nurse was going to let her slip in quietly, "You are late. Too late. Where are you coming from? Far?"
The embarrassed woman noded.
"Fine. If you were local, I'd make you re-book and come back. If you're coming from London, I'll have to let it slide . . . THIS TIME."
TPMP, yelling out like it's a motherfucking Baptist church, "Uuuh huh. That's us!"
She wasn't even talking to you; no one gives a fuck where you live.
A little while later, nurse: "In some cases, there may be hair thinning."
TPMP, again, without even raising her hand, "What if you have pre-existing female pattern baldness? Does it make it worse? I already have to wear a hairpiece."
Holy hell. Bitch has got it all goin' on!
And let me be clear that it wasn't her actual ailments that were obnoxious, it was just her. All of her. And please remember there was no less than FIFTY people in this room. I almost wanted to jump up and yell, "Bitch! This ain't live action Twitter!"
My husband leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I bet'cha she was a riot in high school."
Snort! I leaned back over to him and whispered back, "I love you."
So when it came time to discuss how there actually are REAL support groups (and as much as it is surely comforting being around people going though the same thing as me), if this crazy woman is in my group, I'm going to have to pull a Ryan King on her fat ass . . .
So far, I've already learned something useless — and I thrive on useless information — which is that 2013 is the first year since 1987 in which all 4 digits are different. Huh.
I'll let you chew on that for a while . . .
OK. So, I haven't had much time to sit down and itemize all my deep and meaningful quandaries about life and love from the past year, but I have some perfectly valid reasons:
1. Hubs has been home for the duration of these holidays and he has this "thing" about me constantly being on technology (or making crafts, or anything that doesn't directly affect him in a positive way) whilst he's home. Seriously. We've got the next 50 years to get sick of each other, just let me play with my shit, mmmk? Ugh.
2. Holidays mean food. Food is distracting.
3. Holidays mean extended family. Extended family is annoying.
4. After nearly 2 months of the family being an astonishingly bright beacon of health, all hell broke loose. Sick children are fucking disgusting.
5. I've been going after jobs like a bull after a matador's ass. Customizing my awesomeness for each individual position is exhausting.
6. I painted THREE rooms in my house over the holidays. We moved into this entirely white house in December of 2010 and I'd been using the whole "but I'm working all the time" excuse not to paint. Well, I thought I'd call myself out on that bullshit. Since I'm not working, I finally wanted something DONE around the house. I'm most proud of this accent wall. I made these window edges my bitches, y'all!
7. And finally, I got a Wacom drawing tablet for Christmas. Soon, I hope to draw some more, well, productive drawings, but for right now, I've been busy testing out the easy subjects — getting a real feel for the hardware, ya know . . .
And I know you're all wondering with bated breath, so I'll just put it out there once and for all . . . Yes, I do commissions.